Too Young
by Vengeful
Summary: They are far too young, he decides, to be this cold and cynical. Two old friends meet at a bar. Nick/Sara friendship.


**A/N: I haven't visited this fandom in a couple of years. Hell, I haven't watched the show since Sara hopped into bed with Grissom, and everything went to hell. So, I think it goes without saying that there are some aspects that are not correspondent with the show. However, I have kept up with goings on, and I am fully aware of certain important events (such as the finale). Thus, this encompasses those things. **

**  
This is not meant to be a romantic Sara/Nick story. Yes, I am a hard core shipper, but in all honesty, this is more of friendship. Or not. I will, however, warn the reader that I am very much against Sara/Grissom. There is no love here. Take it as you like. Still, I hope this is somewhat enjoyable. Remember, leave a review!**

**Emily**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, and frankly, I don't want to own it anymore. Nothing's the same. It's sad. **

* * *

It happens at a bar down in Georgia. He's not there to drink, although he wishes he were. He wonders, when he sees her, if it's some trick of fate that brings him here. He shakes off this thought; he doesn't really believe in divine intervention or fate anymore; really, he doesn't much believe in anything, these days.

He's on a case-a suspect ran down here, it's his job to find him.

He volunteered to come; he's grateful for the time away. The suspect isn't at the bar, nor is there a witness present. He has no need to be here, shouldn't be here, really. But she's there, sitting, looking into a glass of wine, and he wonders what she's thinking.

She sees him first, and she's the first to speak. It's soft, when she finally says his name, questioning, tentative.

"Nick," she whispers. He can hardly hear her, but, somehow, just as he knew to come into the bar, he knows that she's speaking to him.

"Sara," he says back. He walks over, and pauses as they look at one another, not quite sure what to do. Surprisingly, she makes the first move, so to speak. She motions to the empty seat next to her; it's not much, hardly a gesture at all, but it's somehow enough to make him feel something akin to relief.

Well, what he remembers relief feeling like, at any rate; it's been a long time since he's felt anything, really.

"How are you?" he asks. She shrugs, and that says it all. She's fine, as fine as she can be, anyways.

"Fine," she answers, however, just for formality. "How are you?"

"I'm alive," he replies. He doesn't need to say anything else. He's alive, but barely. He's still working, but it means nothing. He's content to be miserable.

Well, maybe not content, but what can he do otherwise?

"What are you doing now?" he asks.

She laughs, a dull sound, just as worn and tired as the rest of her. "I'm a high school science teacher."

He laughs with her, thinking, for a moment, that she is joking. But then, he realizes, she never joked much; neither does he, these days. She's serious. And, for some reason, it's funny. Perhaps it's only because it's been so long since he's heard her laugh, or since he's laughed. They stopped joking, laughing, having fun a long time ago.

He's learned that he can't do his job and enjoy life, so, he's given up all the laughter and fun. He wonders now if she's maybe gained some of it back.

"I never thought you could stand kids."

Anyone watching them might think they were having fun, that they were, dare he think it, happy.

He's gotten good at faking happiness in the time he's work in Las Vegas. Lately, though, he's grown tired of that game, grown tired of the façade he must wear. Sara had it right, he sometimes thinks; she got out. Then again, she was always more fucked up than he.

She shrugs. "They can be all right. High school kids are another story, these days," she explains.

Nick doesn't care; neither does she. It's small talk. They have both fallen into a familiar pattern of ignoring the obvious, ignoring the troubles of life. Well, not ignoring; rather, simply choosing to avoid. Avoidance-that's the key to surviving. Sure, it'll kill you in its own way, give it time, but, for the moment, it keeps him running, keeps every one of them running, more or less.

"How is everybody?"

This isn't small talk anymore. An innocuous question like this takes bravery, for to ask is to know. He's far too tired to try to mask the truth, try to soften the blow, and besides, she's far too tired of hearing only parts of the truth.

"Warrick's dead," he says. He doesn't elaborate, and she doesn't ask. "Grissom misses you." Those words are particularly painful; Nick never did approve of that relationship.

She gives him a small smile, and shakes her head. "He doesn't miss me; he misses the idea of me," she tells him. He shrugs; there's no use arguing, as he doesn't know if that's right or not.

He wants so badly to order a drink. What a picture that would be, he thinks, two people-old friends-catching up over drinks.

How domestic.

How normal.

How misleading.

He frowns; what is this, then?

He must have voiced the last part out loud, because she cocks her head in that old familiar way, and says, "I don't know. Two old colleagues, meeting each other in a bar."

She doesn't say 'old friends,' he notes, and he says as much. She shrugs.

"We're friends," she tells him.

"We used to be good friends."

She nods, knowing that he doesn't mean just the two of them. They all used to be good friends, a family, really: him, Sara, Warrick, Catherine, Greg, hell, maybe even Grissom. They all were good friends.

"Yeah, well, that was before…" She trails off, and he wanders what 'before' is. He doesn't remember the exact moment that changed everything-the exact 'before.' Maybe it was after the explosion in the lab that their family fragmented; it seemed to occur around then. Maybe it was after she was caught drinking.

"Yeah," he agrees, "before."

He orders a beer. He's on duty, and if someone spots him, he'll have hell to pay, but he doesn't care anymore.

"Drinking on the job now?" she asks, arching an eyebrow, gazing at him. He shrugs again. "I thought that was more my thing," she comments. He nearly spits out his drink, when she mentions her past so casually, as though it were some scene in a comedy.

"You shouldn't joke about things like that," he says at last.

"Who's joking? I don't think I know how to make jokes anymore. My students think I'm cold, uncaring. I have to agree with them."

They are silent, then, suddenly, he bangs his fist on the counter top. A couple of patrons glance at the pair, but then, they turn away. No point in watching others, not when you have your own misery.

"We're too young, damn it!" he exclaims. "Too young to be this broken."

"There is no age limit to that, Nick. You know that."

And he does know that, and he wishes that he didn't. He's seen so many kids-too many kids-already screwed up, already hard and cold and cynical, because of some monster or another. Yeah, he knows that a person is never too young to be broken. And he wishes desperately that he didn't.

He makes a decision in that moment. It's a long time coming, and suddenly, he's ready.

"I can't do this anymore," he mutters. He doesn't know if he can be fixed, if either of them can be fixed. Maybe they're doomed to be like this for eternity. But he wants the chance to know if he can be happy. He needs that chance. Sara knew that when she left, he realizes. Maybe, just maybe, they have a chance.

She gives him a smile. It's small, but it's genuine. "They're always looking for more teachers," she says. He smiles back.

"I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

It's the first day of school, and rumors of summer are floating throughout the halls, mixed with talk of classes and schedules and teachers.

"Dude, I saw Miss Sidle smile. I thought you said she never did!"

"She doesn't. I don't know who you saw, but that's the worst teacher ever, man."

"Ha, maybe it's the new guy, that new teacher. He was in there earlier, talking with her. I think they were flirting," a girl says.

"I thought she was a lesbian."

"Guess not. That would have been hot, though... hey, I was joking!"

"Perv," the girl laughs.

"Fuck you."

And life goes on. The speculations stop, because students don't care enough, because really, no one cares enough about two random people, whose souls aren't even really complete anymore.

But they care about each other, and that's all that really matters now. Because they aren't whole, not yet, at least. But it's getting better. They can smile, now, sometimes, and mean it. And that makes them think that maybe, just maybe, there is hope, or relief, or something.

And hey, that's all they need.

* * *

**A/N: Reviews are much loved :)**


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